


Love, as measured out in pants and toothpaste

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Boxing Day, Boxing Day Fluff in fact, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, John Watson is angry, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Post Mary, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess, a sentimental mess, of a soap-related sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2858234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's last five Boxing Days have been unqualified disasters. The sixth is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, as measured out in pants and toothpaste

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for reikenbachfall (santamoriarty) for the Sherlock Secret Santa 2014. Happy Chanukah! Merry Christmas! I hope you like fluff!

For someone as ambivalent about Christmas as John Watson, Boxing Day always comes as a relief: no expectations, no plans, and usually plenty of leftovers. And yet, since he has moved in with Sherlock Holmes, the comfortable nullity of Boxing Day has been ashes in his mouth.

After the debacle of Irene Adler’s purported death, John had, in some misguided attempt at solving his issues, tried to patch things up with Harry, again. It had ended with her drunk and sobbing; John stomped home and flung himself on his bed, tears stinging his own eyes. That he landed on three sticks of antiperspirant served only to compound his misery.

The second and third years, after Reichenbach, John had felt null every day, suspended out of time, and so there was no comfort in yet another day of nothingness.

The fourth, though Sherlock had returned, John went to Mary’s annual “Chosen Family” party. Moderately miserable in his tie and hurt feelings, he made his excuses and left early. At home, a neatly folded stack of pants on his bed seemed to drive home just how domesticated he had become, and he shoved it to the floor in a tiny, purposeless burst of savagery.

The fifth, John took a bottle of whiskey up to the Holmes’ guest room and drank himself insensible rather than worry about Sherlock’s fate at the hands of the British government. He left the next day, barely coherent, and was only slightly embarrassed when he found he’d packed some socks that weren’t his.

Boxing Day, he thought, when he got back to their apartment, can go and fuck itself right along with Christmas. He put the strange socks in his drawer, deciding that he was going to bloody well keep them without guilt.

 

By the next Christmas, Mary had left, and John was back in Baker Street, on pleasant but slightly uneasy terms. Of a tree, he decided, there would be no question, though he did buy something for Sherlock and for Mrs. Hudson. This latter appeared with one on the 24th-and John suspected, again, that Sherlock was behind it—and cried with joy when she unwrapped her new soap dispenser. John sank into the curves of his chair with another drink, and breathed slowly until she was gone.

On the 25th, to his dismay, nobody was murdered in an interesting enough way to please Sherlock. This meant dinner with Mrs. Hudson, which he got through in the same way, and by 6 o’clock on Christmas night was flat out on the couch. Tomorrow, he thought, as he drifted away to sleep, please let something happen, or I will come out of this holiday as bad as Harry.

He dreamed of black shapes and anger, and woke up fuzzy-mouthed and uncomfortable. As he lay there, hoping the room would stop spinning, he saw Sherlock enter his field of vision holding a cup of tea.

“Hydration.” Sherlock said, softly, and left him to it. John couldn’t muster up a smile, but he watched Sherlock go with a trace of contentment in his eyes.

He was almost ready to attempt a trip to the loo when Mrs. Hudson knocked. Loudly.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she called, and, not waiting for an answer, bustled in, followed by a large man carrying an even larger parcel. “Your box is here!”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, appearing from the kitchen. John’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. Thanks? And had Sherlock just tipped someone?

“I don’t know how you manage this. My chat with your mother is long overdue, young man.”

“Father.” Sherlock said, with a half smile. Mrs. Hudson shook her head in disbelief.

“You are spoiled rotten, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, hugging him.

“Any mince pies left?” Sherlock asked, with a half smile. All he got in response was a raised eyebrow as Mrs. Hudson left the room.

“There are,” Sherlock said.

“She makes extra for you and you know it.” John said. “What’s in the box?”

“Oh, um,” Sherlock’s ears pinkened, “It’s my father. He sends a gift on Boxing Day.”

That’s nice.” John said, suddenly feeling that it was. “Want to open it?”

“Well, it’s, um, not very exciting,” Sherlock said, “Just a few things.”

“Oh, open it.”

“Your curiosity is very plebian, John.”

“Come on, do us a favour. I feel awful.”

“Your own fault.”  
“Still feel awful.”

“Fine.” Sherlock produced a pocketknife and cut the brown paper off, exposing a large white box. He lifted the lid. Inside were a cluster of toothbrushes and what looked like several bottles of Sherlock’s hair care products, as well as neatly-packed stacks of pants, socks, toothpaste, and antiperspirant.

John whistled.

“Does your father not realize we do have shops in London?”

Sherlock frowned.

“He’s aware of the fact, although I wouldn’t put it past him to have forgotten. He does this as a material expression of love. I will say, though, that it is perhaps his most useful way of expressing sentiment.”

John stared. From Sherlock, this was a nearly dangerous level of approval. Sherlock saw his face, divined his thoughts, and looked away blushing as though he had said something embarassing.

“You like it.” John grinned, wholeheartedly now.

“I merely said it was not a complete waste of time.”

“Yeah. And that means you like it. A lot.”

“I am,” Sherlock paused, his face still pink, “human. Sometimes.”

“You are a sentimental mess right now. I think you are making my hangover go away all on its own.”

“I am going to go back to my experiment.”

“Avoid all you like. I think this has cheered me up enough to attempt a shower.”

“Hmph.” Sherlock said, already halfway to the kitchen.

 

John was smiling as he went painfully up the stairs. He had known Mr. Holmes was a loving father; he had not known that Sherlock could appreciate it as much as he did. Imagine, Sherlock expressing gratitude for pants and toothpaste, no matter how expensive. Either he knew more about love than he cared to say, John thought, pushing his door open, or…

A neat stack of his favourite soap sat on his bed.

John stood, rooted to the spot and breathless. Antiperspirant. Pants. Socks. Now this. Every year he could have, Sherlock had done this. For him.  It seemed, he thought, enveloped now in the force of this practical and profoundly sentimental love, that Boxing Day could, after all, be salvaged.

**Author's Note:**

> I used the Baker Street Wiki timeline for this, so the first Christmas is 2010, the second and third are 2011 & 2012, etc.  
> Also, I read an advice column in Esquire many years ago that recommended doing the very thing that Mr. Holmes does; that is, to buy basic supplies in bulk at the beginning of the year.


End file.
